


After the end

by heavensweetheart



Category: The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Angst, Angst and Romance, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Drama & Romance, F/M, Heartache, Heavy Angst, Love, One Shot, POV Third Person, Revelations, Romance, Tragic Romance, True Love, You seriously thought I was going to wait a year to see this scene?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:15:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29828268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensweetheart/pseuds/heavensweetheart
Summary: Look at me, James, she thought. Look at me and really see me.***The search for Lucie takes James to Paris. (To Paris, of all places.) The City of Light turned out to not be so big; had it been, he would have not run into Matthew and Cordelia, of all people. And another, less pleasant, company would not have found any of them either.
Relationships: Cordelia Carstairs/James Herondale
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	After the end

_“He is forbidden to love as a man. Passion must find its own way out. Claws tear the heart. Love is the most merciless of gods.”_

**– Rebecca Ashe.**

The sky was grey in Paris, the faint shade that could be observed during a summer rain. It brought a melancholic beauty to the Place de la Concorde, one completely uncalled for the situation. Belial stood in impeccable looks, wearing a modest but refined dark suit, reflecting the sky’s color like a lake of still water, mysterious and threatening in his apparent calmness.

A smile played with the corners of his lips, and Cordelia’s heartrate sped up in rage. It was a smile that could be read as mildly bouncy in any other being; in Belial, it was the cruelest of the mockeries.

Everything was confusing still; first, there was Lucie and Malcolm Fade. Then, there was James.

James. Here in Paris.

Her eyes irremediably went to him for a brief moment, the equivalent of an unassuming accidental touch by a stranger in a crowd, yet she knew it was anything but. She wondered if he had felt it, if he had returned her glance once she took her eyes away.

James was the one standing closest to Belial and he was the only one unarmed. Cordelia held Cortana out with the might of avenging holy fire, Matthew had his finger fixed on the trigger of his revolver, Lucie’s ax was right above her head ready to be thrown and slay, Malcolm did not carry any visible weapon, but his magic was right at his disposal. James’ arms were down, his hands empty.

Belial watched him with dark delight, the sadistic amusement and selfish curiosity of a child breaking his toys for fun. Had circumstances been different, Cordelia thought, had the two of them fought, James would have been the one with greater chances to win. He was younger and more muscular. However, these were not normal circumstances; this was a Prince of Hell the one they were facing. James’ very own grandfather. 

“What a surprise to find all of you here, children.” Belial’s voice was velvety, deceitful. “Although, my astonishment is baseless. Any half-wit could foresee James would relentlessly search for his precious younger sister.”

His eyes glinted in Lucie’s way, unexpectedly, their disturbing glee grew at the sight of her. They gravitated back to James nonetheless, growing with excitement. It was a wolfish look, fascinated and hungry.

There was something he expected to acquire from James, something he craved.

James' expression was stony, his face betrayed nothing.

“But I ignored dear Cordelia and Matthew would be visiting Paris in this fine evening,” Belial concluded, his stare finally reaching Cordelia.

James’ eye twitched as if in physical pain, his voice was deep as a tomb: “Do not look at her.”

Satisfaction was clear in Belial’s features. He had found whatever he was looking for.

“You pay no mind that I call you Cordelia, right, Mrs. Herondale?” he continued, his gaze returning to Cordelia. “Since we are all family now.”

A muscle beat at James’ jaw. “I said,” he gritted, “do _not_ look at her.”

Belial licked his lips as if tasting something sweet. “You are awfully cranky today, little dark one. I assumed you would be cheerier since you are now free to be with the one you love the most.”

A pulse of pain struck directly at Cordelia’s heart, so greatly that her stance staggered. Her hands shook.

The vacillation was small, nearly imperceptible, but Belial’s eyes found her again, oddly enchanted. Fulfilled.

“Oh, dear. Have you not told your wife yet, James? How inconsiderate on your part! And bewildering. I, likewise, imagined you would run to the arms of _your Daisy_ and the two of you would celebrate you are no longer under the Blackthorn girl’s control.”

The pain was abruptly replaced by dumbfounding shock. “What?”

James did not react to her voice. He gave no answer, nor did he turn to look at her. He took a strong, confrontational step towards Belial instead, but ultimately restrained himself; this time around, his entire face twisted in pain.

His golden eyes found Belial, they were blazing greater than the punishing fire of Hell. “I am not your puppet, Belial. Nor yours, nor anyone else’s.”

It was hard to not read Belial’s ironic smirk as insulting. At last, he was the one that approached James, close enough to touch him.

A repugnant flavor tasted in Cordelia’s throat, hatred settled in her gut. She wanted to throw Cortana at Belial, push him away from James.

“Oh, but you are,” said the demon, arrogantly, “and you will be as long as you keep your moronic obsession with love. You are so naïve, and you have so little faith in something you claim to hold so dear. For years, you were not able to tell it apart from a mere spell. It is too indulgent to give Grace Blackthorn any credit for that task, you were simply easy to trick.” 

Cordelia’s emotions were running rampant across the square, her thoughts tripping between each other. She stared intently at James and she could remember the last time she had seen him with Grace Blackthorn. What she could not do was bring herself to believe what she was hearing, not if it came from Belial’s mouth.

Therefore, she asked James, through the tension and the palpable, throbbing heartbreak that enclosed them. “What is he talking about?”

He remained silent, but his indifference was long gone, Cordelia’s voice triggered another grimace of pain no different from the one anyone would make upon a hard stab and the twisting of the knife inside the wound. His head bowed in surrender. Exhausted. Defeated.

Belial had won.

He rejoiced as such: “Worry your lovely head not, beautiful Daisy. Your husband indeed feels for you that certain fondness that humans call love. Just as I said, he has felt it for years, am I wrong? He was only unable to act on it due to the spell of another young woman of your acquaintance.”

James was hunched. Hurt and small. This was Belial wanted, he was feeding on James’ pain.

 _No_.

Cordelia dropped her fighting stance and went to James. She could feel the astonished stares of her friends as she moved, but she paid them no mind. Belial followed her with his eyes as well, yet made no attempt to stop her either; if anything, this was an improvised act in the play he was witnessing.

She reached James’ side, tilting her head a little to see straight into his eyes. “Is that true?”

James said nothing, he would not look at her. He never had, she realized. He had never looked at her in a way that he could truly see her. But, in the past, it had not been by his own will, this time he was looking away from her as a choice. He physically turned his head to the side.

Suddenly, she felt anger. She was angrier than she had been when Belial first appeared. She was angry at the world and, above everyone else, at James. It was irrational, most likely, and she could not tell if it was truly anger what she was feeling. All she knew was that everything she had carried inside her heart for so many – love, ache, happiness, sadness – had become a messy mixture inside of her fighting to be freed, to be authenticated.

“By the angel, look at me!” she screamed, stomping her foot on the ground in a very inelegant manner.

James did, startled.

 _Look at me, James_ , she thought. _Look at me and really see me._

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it!! And if you'd like to know ways to help me keep writing, please, please, **PLEASE** see the pinned post on my Tumblr page: https://heavensweetheart.tumblr.com/


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